


sweetest downfall (i loved you first)

by chxrrywhine



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23725171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chxrrywhine/pseuds/chxrrywhine
Summary: four years after the mountain divorce, yennefer and jaskier have a little chat
Relationships: (IMPLIED), (also implied), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	sweetest downfall (i loved you first)

**Author's Note:**

> i finally broke down and wrote witcher fic. special shout out to joey batey for his excellent performance as jaskier, by the way. alright, what to know about this fic:
> 
> \- set after season one, episode six, "rare species"  
> \- everything in here is based on my knowledge of the show, not the books or games.  
> \- rated m for excessive use of the word fuck and one line of suggestive dialogue  
> \- don't ask too many questions about the timeline because i don't know  
> \- unbeta'd
> 
> title is from samson by regina spektor because i love it, and it wounds me

All he’d wanted was a cup of ale.

One shitty cup of lukewarm ale to keep him warm on a blustery winter night. A night without strumming his fingers raw, sleeping on a feather bed instead of curled up under the stars. One night to drink his problems away like all the rest of the poor bastards in this shithole of a town so small he could reach out a hand and be at the end of it. He thought he deserved that much, at least.

Godsdamn every twist of fate that led him to this moment.

Jaskier gestures to the bartender. “Yeah, keep them coming, will you?”

He knocks back the last of his drink and scrubs a hand over his face, pressing his eyes into the palms of his hands. He can tell the exact moment the drunks and barmaids notice Yennefer in their midst because the whole tavern goes eerily quiet. When he looks up, even the bartender has spilled a bit of ale— _his_ ale, thank you very much—he’s so captivated. So. It’s going to be one of those nights.

The first time Jaskier had witnessed the effect Yennefer had on people, he thought she’d cast some sort of spell. As it turned out, she was just that fucking beautiful. All the men wanted to fuck her, all the women wanted to be her, and none of them could ever seem to take their eyes off her.

Yennefer doesn’t walk across the tavern floor so much as she glides, and everyone in her path steps aside to watch her go. She steps over a puddle of beer or piss with all the grace of a queen without batting an eyelash and takes a seat beside him.

“Beer,” she says to the bartender. “Strongest you have.”

Slowly, the sounds of the bar resume around them. Yennefer doesn’t say anything to him until she’s been served, and even then, she doesn’t look at him when she says it. Which is more than fine with him. Preferably, Jaskier would like out of this conversation before it even begins, but he doesn’t see that happening anytime soon.

“Bard,” Yennefer says.

“Witch.”

“Fancy meeting you here. What’s it been, two years? Ten? Honestly, I thought you’d be dead by now.”

“I could only hope the same for you, but look at that, both of us unlucky.” He flashes her a feral grin, all teeth and absolutely no mirth, and inclines his head toward her. “Hello Yennefer.”

“Jaskier.” She looks around the room. “Funny. I see the shadow but not the one who casts it. Where is Geralt these days?”

“How should I know?”

“Why wouldn’t you know?”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “This might shock you to learn, witch, but I do actually have a life outside of our favorite Witcher.”

“Shock me indeed.” Yennefer picks up a stale piece of bread and tears it into small pieces. “And yet here you are, still singing his praises.” She places a bit of bread on her tongue and chews contemplatively. “What’s that all about?”

“What it’s about is that _Toss A Coin_ still makes me a shit ton of money. Until that stops, it stays. And, sorry, do you see me singing? Perhaps old age is catching up with you after all.”

“Cute.”

“I try. Was there something I could help you with?”

“Oh no. Just thought I’d stop and say hello to an old friend.”

“I could’ve done without.” Jaskier tips his glass back and downs some more ale. “It’s quite possible—nay, _likely_ —I will regret asking this, but what are you doing in the area, exactly?”

Yennefer doesn’t say anything. She tears smaller pieces of bread and separates them into little piles.

“Ah. Looking for more magical cures, then?” He’s doesn’t say it any particular way; he’s not trying to be an asshole, but Yennefer glares at him.

“Careful, bard. I could turn you into a roach and crush you under my heel.”

“Oh, that I’d be rid of you.”

Yennefer eats another piece of bread. She doesn’t sound vulnerable, necessarily, but her tone loses a bit of it’s natural heat when she says, “Geralt told you, then?”

Jaskier snorts. “Of course not. That would involve talking about feelings, something our Geralt doesn’t exactly do.” He levels her with a look. “Oh, come now. The djinn. The heart. I’m not actually as stupid as you’d like to believe.”

“All this time, you had me fooled.”

Maybe it’s because Jaskier’s a little drunk and a lot exhausted, but he laughs. He laughs until his sides hurt even though nothing’s funny—even though he’s technically laughing at himself—and lets his head come to rest against the sticky flat of the bar. Gods, how did he end up here? In this town, in this tavern, talking to a prickly witch about their mutually acquainted Witcher? There’s not nearly enough alcohol in his system to handle the direction his night is taking. Jaskier raises his head and knocks his glass against hers in a weak-ass _cheers!_ gesture and finishes the rest of his ale. The bartender tops off their glasses almost immediately and steps away, though his eyes still stray to the curve of her breasts every time Yennefer so much as breathes. Which is to say, a lot.

“You must get tired of that,” Jaskier says after watching the man a while.

“Of what?”

“The stares.”

Yennefer laughs. For some reason, the sound takes him completely by surprise. He didn’t think her capable of it. It’s quite a pretty sound, too. Lyrics itch in the back of his brain— _rose-colored lips, and laughter light as early morning dew_ —but he shuts that shit down immediately because no. Absolutely not.

“I’ve been stared at my whole life, bard. The only difference now is that my face suddenly makes men want to cream their pants instead of bashing it in.”

Jaskier isn’t sure if he’s supposed to laugh or not, so he opts not to say or do anything at all. Truthfully, he doesn’t know that much about Yennefer or her past. He’d asked Geralt a few times, of course, but the extent of those conversations was always _hmm_ and _why do you care,_ and _fuck off, Jaskier_ , so that never went anywhere, but he doesn’t want to ask her, either. Maybe because he doesn’t care enough, or maybe because he’s a little scared to know the answer. But just because they’re having something of a moment—is that what this? a moment?—doesn’t mean he’s ready and willing to dive deep into their childhood traumas. No fucking thank you.

Jaskier finishes his drink in silence and rises to his feet. “Right, well. If it’s all the same to you, I think I’m going to turn in for the night.” He picks up his lute where it’s resting at his feet and swings the strap over his shoulders. “Nice to see you as always, Yennefer, but please do me the favor of choking on that bread, perhaps.”

“And just when I thought we were getting along,” she says drily. She taps her nail against the flat of the bar, and when she says his name, her voice is sharper. “Jaskier.”

He pulls out his coin pouch to settle his tab. “What now?”

“Where is Geralt?”

It’s the way she says it that makes him stop. Ah. He hadn’t fooled himself into thinking she didn’t know, but he’d hoped. One fucking night. He now sees that that was a bit too much to ask for. Jaskier sets his coin pouch on the bar, fingers involuntarily clinching around the worn leather.

“So that’s what this is about, this drink between old friends, as you called it?” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. He doesn’t even try.

Yennefer simply stares at him.

“So, come on, then. Out with it. I’m sure he told you anyway.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Yennefer wipes her hand over the bar and collects the breadcrumbs in the cup of her hand before emptying them out on the floor. She sweeps them into the dark crevice where the bar meets the wood floor with her shoe. It’s a curious gesture, one she doesn’t even think about before performing, but something about the way she wipes her hand over the surface again and again, erasing every crumb, every trace she was even there… It’s not the first time Jaskier’s seen her do it, and again it makes him wonder about her childhood and what must’ve been like to grow up trying not to leave a mark on the world.

“I spoke to Geralt, yes,” she says finally. “A few months ago, outside of Rannvaig. And what about it?”

She raises an eyebrow, daring him to challenge her. Jaskier laughs again, hating the sound even as it’s coming out of his mouth. _And what about it_ , she says. As if she doesn’t know.

See this, this is what keeps Jaskier and Yennefer from ever crossing the threshold into friendship. This is the schism between them, the insurmountable breach they’ll never cross. Jaskier can put up with her remarks and jabs; he can give as good as he gets. What he can’t put up with is the _knowing_.

Once, when he was a boy, Jaskier’s mother had found him crying in the back of their kitchen cupboards. He’d only been about seven or so—already too big to sit on her lap—but she’d sat on a bench, pulled him close, dried his eyes, and asked, _what’s wrong, my love?_ And he’d wiped his damp face against the softness of her breast and said, _Papa is going to leave one day_ , and he knew this with certainty because he’d seen Papa and Adelina outside the barn last night, simply looking at each other, and no one looks at someone the way Papa looked at her and stays in a box when they know there’s a whole world in someone else. His mother just tutted, and kissed his forehead, and called him her little-blue eyed babe. _You see too much_ , she’d said. _My darling, oh that you would keep your eyes from such things. I fear you’ll be your own greatest suffering._

She was right, as it would turn out. Because this is what Jaskier sees, this is what he knows: What he knows is that Geralt will never stop chasing Yennefer. What he knows is that the love, or infatuation, or whatever it is that burns between them is candy-sweet acid, slowly eating away at them both. What he knows is that Yennefer will never stop being the one for which Geralt breaks down his walls, and that, intentional or not, she will never stop fucking him over.

He was angry about it before, after the mountain. But now he’s just tired. Now, he’s sad. Sad for himself, certainly, because he’s the poor bastard who’s still sitting around waiting for the script to change, but sad like he was the day he watched his father and Adelina ride away the summer of his eighth year. The sort of sadness that’s statured with the knowledge that his eyes never lie, not once, even when he wishes they would.

He really is his own greatest suffering.

“You’ll destroy him, you know,” he says softly after a few minutes have passed.

“You can’t destroy that which is already broken.”

“Oh, you and I both know that’s not true. I watch you two destroy each other every time you so much as breathe the same air for more than five minutes.”

Yennefer cuts a look at him. Jaskier doesn’t meet her gaze; he keeps his eyes pointedly fixed on the wall before him, feeling much older than his forty-odd years. He’s exhausted in more ways than one; a little bit bitter, a little bit sore, a little bit singed around the edges. But that’s what you get when you run with legends; you either become part of the story, or the parchment which the story is written on.

“He’ll never stop coming after you, you know? And you’ll never push him away, even when you want to. Even when you hate him.”

“Yes,” Yennefer spits, suddenly angry. “And we all know why that is. Geralt stole from me that which I will never get back. Make no mistake, I already hate him.”

It’s a quiet confirmation of what Jaskier already suspected; the djinn’s last wish, Geralt and Yennefer’s spat on the mountain, her betrayal at the loss of her choice. But there’s more to it than that. Isn’t that how it always goes? And if you ask him, Geralt binding their fates together, while shitty, was merely pouring water into an ocean.

“I’ve known Geralt almost my whole life,” he says, “and I’ve yet to see him care for anyone or anything as much as he cares for you. But you, Yennefer. You’ll break him apart, and you’ll fucking delight in it.”

Yennefer’s fingers twitch at her side. “You don’t know me, Jaskier.”

If she wants to cast a spell, steal his voice, turn him into a roach like she threatened, he’d let her. He’s aware that he’s playing with fire; Yennefer of Vengerberg is a goddess of vengeance and violence, retribution personified. If he were wise, he’d kiss the boots on her feet rather than peel back her layers for all the world to see, for _her_ to see. But Jaskier drowned his wisdom at the bottom of his fourth mug of alcohol and he’s kept himself quiet for long enough as it is.

She clenches her teeth, jaw twitching under her skin, and for the first time, Jaskier sees something like genuine hatred in her eyes. But then she blinks and it’s gone. Because here is another thing he knows: he knows she knows he’s right. Whether she wants him to be right or not, he is. Yennefer will never forgive Geralt for what’s he’s done to her. She’ll never forget the hurt he caused her, or the tears he made her cry, and when she hurts him (which she will), she’ll take some measure of pride in it, even if it hurts her too.

“And what about you, bard?” she says softly, lips twisted into a smile that’s both mocking and mean. “Don’t think for a second that I don’t see you, too. I’m weak, my love, and I’m wanting. Isn’t that what you said? Only you could make yourself a martyr in a story that isn’t even about you.”

If Jaskier had been holding a glass, he would have dropped it. It’s not the words themselves but having them thrown back at him so casually… She knows what she’s doing, Yennefer. She knows how to cut without a blade, how to kill with nothing but her honey voice. And whatever she sees on his face just makes her smile wider.

“You’re blind if you truly think Geralt cares nothing for you.”

“I’m not going to discuss this with you.”

She slams a hand on the bar between them. “You absolutely are, you _fucking_ coward.” The bar patrons halt their conversations, casting nosy glances in their direction, but Yennefer barrels onward, heedless. “It’s okay to expose my secrets, but you’re content to leave yours buried under your self-pity. Hiding in a bar, drinking this dog shit ale, pretending you can disappear into the crowd, like you don’t have his mark all over you. The Witcher’s Bard.” She curls her lip derisively. “I’ve never known you to be so pathetic.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath. Anger is not an emotion that finds him very often, but he’s full to choking on it now. “Might I remind you, that my world does not rise and fall with Geralt of fucking Rivia.”

“Yes, it godsdamned does! Because that’s how this works, Jaskier! Geralt is the fucking sun and we’re all just swirling in his orbit.” She pauses to catch her breath and when she speaks again, her voice is lower. “The only difference between you and I is that you chose this.”

“And you didn’t?”

Yennefer’s nostrils flare. “We all have wounds our, bard,” she says through gritted teeth. “I suggest you lick them and get over it.”

“Oi, oi!”

Jaskier’s reply dies on his lips. A man stumbles over to the bar, drunk beyond all reason, effectively shattering the tension between them. Not too soon, either; when Jaskier looks down, his hands are shaking. The man, whose clothes are more rags than stitches at this point, leans against the bar between them. Jaskier has to fight the urge to recoil from the man’s stench.

“Ain’t you the bastard that wrote Toss a Coin?”

It takes a moment for him to switch between conversations; the emotional whiplash is enough to give him a headache. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol. Truthfully, though, this conversation could go either way. The number of people who love and hate Toss a Coin seem about equal these days.

“Um. Maybe?”

Yennefer snorts.

“Oh, shut up.”

“It’s a shite song, is what it is,” the man slurs. He takes a long drink of whatever rancid concoction is swirling around in his cup and belches.

“Oh, gods, that is disgusting, thank you.”

“Alright, fuck off, then.” Yennefer waves a hand and the man drops to the floor, asleep.

“Are you just going to leave him there?”

“Would _you_ like to carry him?”

Jaskier shuts his mouth.

Their conversation is over; even if the drunk hadn’t interrupted them, there’s nothing more to be said that hasn’t been already. They’ve driven enough knives into each other’s guts for one night. Yennefer glances at him—if she’s waiting for a thank you or something for putting the drunk to sleep, she’ll be waiting for the rest of her unnaturally long life—but she doesn’t say anything. She drinks the rest of her beer and pulls out a handful of coins, wordlessly covering his tab, then stands up.

The conversation couldn’t have been longer than an hour if that, but Jaskier feels exhausted, drained. More than he’s felt in a long time. Godsdamn this wretched woman, truly.

He slides off the stool, careful to avoid the sleeping man, and puts his coin pouch back in his pocket. The leather is tacky with his sweat. “Right. Same time next decade, then?”

“Not if I can help it.” Yennefer adjusts her cloak around her shoulders and flips her hair so it comes to rest outside her collar. When she looks at him, there’s something different in her eyes, something he’s never seen before. She’s a little colder, a little more distant—that’s to be expected—but there’s a new measure of respect there, too. Huh. Every time Jaskier sees Yennefer, he always leaves filled with more questions than he has answers, but experience has taught him not to look for those, either.

“Try not to get yourself killed, Jaskier. I’d like the pleasure of doing that myself.”

With that, she glides out of the tavern just as smoothly as she came in, and then she’s gone. Yennefer of Vengerberg is out of his life once more.

And though he’s spent the last hour wishing she’d _go away_ , Jaskier isn’t happy to see her leave. He’s not sad about it, and he’d absolutely hate every second he’d have to spend in her presence, but Yennefer is familiar. She reminds him of times long since passed, both in good ways and bad. Most days, Jaskier is an expert at ignoring his loneliness, but tonight, it’s harder. Each one Yennefer’s precise cuts stabbed true.

She had called Geralt _the fucking sun_. Maybe there’s some truth to that because it’s been almost four years since the mountain, and Jaskier has yet to find some fucking warmth.

He’s just about to walk upstairs to the room he purchased for the night when a snippet of conversation draws his attention. Two blokes, just come in from the cold, shaking the snow off their boots.

“—heard there’s a contract up in Novigrad. Griffin, terrorizing the locals. You won’t believe who’s taking it.”

“Oh, yeah? The White fuckin Wolf, innit?” The other man laughs and shakes out his hat. “Crazy fucking bastard.”

The two men move deeper into the tavern, their voices getting lost among the others.

Jaskier pauses on the stairs.

This is the final thing he knows: Yennefer was right about him. He’s thankful he was spared having to admit it. The Witcher’s Bard. How is it that Jaskier has spent the last four years avoiding any mention of Geralt, only for information on his whereabouts to fall directly into his lap no sooner than he finds he actually wants it? It all unravels so gently, so perfectly that he could almost believe Yennefer and her magic had something to do with it if it weren’t so fated. Because that’s what it is, isn’t it?

Fate. Destiny. Sunrise. They all mean the same thing in the end.

Jaskier turns on his heel and starts back up the steps, dragging a hand through his hair.

Novigrad it is, then.

**Author's Note:**

> no social media accs! drop me a line in the comments, and please keep listening to your governments regarding covid-19 health and safety regulations! <3 :)


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